


stars in our eyes

by lucasfriars



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Actor Louis, Alternate Universe, M/M, Writer Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 03:17:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3794632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucasfriars/pseuds/lucasfriars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“What usually makes you want to write?”</i><br/><i>“People,” Harry shrugged. “I’ve been writing for ages and I always say, the best kind of inspiration is from people. Finding that muse is key to success. Write when you’re falling apart, or falling in love.”</i><br/><br/>Or the one where Harry is an avid journalist and Louis is a more than well-known actor who might not just be the perfect cure for a writer’s block, but also the perfect subject for an article.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stars in our eyes

It took a cup of coffee, two red bulls, and the too-quiet atmosphere of two in the morning for Harry Styles to slam his laptop shut in frustration. He has been typing and typing and typing all night and erasing and erasing and erasing every sentence that he’s come up with. Nothing sounded right, nothing _looked_ right.

What irritated Harry the most was the fact that he was good at writing. He could come up with articles about how music has evolved since the nineties in three hours. He could start on his write-ups a week before their deadline and still produce a flawless piece about pop culture. His writing was always close to perfection. He loved to write, always had ever since he was a little kid. And maybe that’s why he ended up working in one of the biggest magazine companies. His co-workers practically praised his writing skills, his capabilities of producing compositions every single day without breaking a sweat. He was adored and he was admired from left to right, people went to him for guidance, people sought him for help. They might as well call him Saint Harry.

And that’s exactly why he was beyond irritated. He was without a doubt remarkable at writing, always came out naturally for him, but there he was, struggling with a stupid article he couldn’t even begin with. He had to come up with at least a thousand words in twenty-four hours, and all he has done was open Microsoft Word.

It was unusual for him to not come up with anything. He’s had some problems before with not finding the right words to encapsulate whatever the hell was going on in his mind, but that problem was always solved in five minutes, thirty minutes at most. The stupid “writer’s block” problem has never lasted three days.

Harry has been sitting in his office for three days with a Microsoft Word document open and blank in front of his very eyes. It’s been three days. The blinking cursor was almost mocking him, as if each blink was going faster and faster, screaming _hurry up, hurry up_ after each flicker.

“Fuck it,” he exhaled and pushed himself out of his office chair. He opened the glass door of his office with much aggression and made his way to the other side of the almost-empty building. To his right were endless glass offices owned by writers and editors, some of them still typing on their laptops, some asleep on their desks, and some already gone home, while his left had a clutter of cubicles with assistants answering phone calls and stapling papers and inputting numbers.

The path between the two was wide enough for three people, but in the early hours of the morning, no one inhabited it, so Harry took it to his advantage of course. He walked down the hall with his hair flowing behind him and his chin up high. He felt authorised… although maybe that’s because half the office was empty and no one was there to interrupt his strut.

He could already see the blonde who he was intending to visit through the glass wall of his office and smiled when he spotted his crouched position over a chaotic table full of papers. At least Harry wasn’t the only one in a dilemma. He was pleased to see the door open and walked straight into the office without bothering to knock, clearing his throat instead to get his co-worker’s attention.

“Harry?” Niall Horan’s head snapped up and brought his eyebrows together in confusion and worry. “God, it’s half-past three in the morning, what are you still doing here?”

“I can ask you the same thing.” He mumbled as he took a seat in the plush couch of Niall’s office. He looked around the room, which was much bigger than his shoebox workplace. It had posters and sticky notes and photographs all over the walls and drawings all over the one glass wall that separated the room from the rest of the building, turning glass into a whiteboard; kudos to Niall Horan for his creativity.

Niall shrugged. “’Still got to finish the layout for next month’s cover. Also have to go through some of the submitted posters so we can start picking interns.” He gathered up some papers and stacked them up on the edge of his desk, the only space left for anything else. “And you?”

“Can’t write,” Harry took a deep sigh. “I’ve been trying all day, since I woke up this morning, and I still got nothing.”

“Nothing?” Niall frowned. He walked around his desk and stood in front of Harry with hands on his hips. “Haven’t you been all locked up in your office the past week writing? I came by yesterday to ask if you wanted to have some lunch and you fucking shooed me away like writing is more important than your physical health.”

“It _is_.” Harry pointed at him with raised eyebrows. “But, yeah, I’ve been trying to write all week and I still can’t come up with anything. I need at least a thousand words by tomorrow or else I’m screwed.”

Niall paused and looked at Harry for a moment, cocking his head to the side as if thinking. It took him a while before he finally spoke again, taking a deep breath before proceeding. “Have you gone home, Harry? When was the last time you’ve been out of this building?”

Harry brought his eyebrows together in thought and groaned. “Like, Monday? I was here during Sunday but Hillary from accounting forced me to go home.”

“Good Hillary, then.” Niall muttered. “Bro, you need some rest.”

“I do get rest!” Harry argued, sitting up from his seat. “I take thirty minute naps whenever my eyes start to sting and I slept on this couch last night.”

“What?”

“I woke up before you came for work.” Harry smiled sheepishly. “Thanks, by the way.”

Niall huffed and stepped forward. He extended an arm, wriggled it when Harry didn’t take it. “Come on, then.”

“Where are we going?” Harry asked cautiously but took his hand anyway, standing up slowly.

As soon as Harry was on his feet, Niall pulled him out of the office, switching the lights off before shutting the door behind him, and dragged him down the hall and to the elevators in a rush. Harry’s arms flailed around as he was hauled through the building, receiving confused glances from the remaining heavy-eyed staff.

“Now,” Niall started once they were halfway through their elevator ride, “I’m not the greatest writer in all the land, that’s you. But, I do know how to write a good enough story every now and then.”

The silver doors rang and opened, revealing the building’s empty main lobby. Niall immediately towed him out and brought the two to the cold streets of after midnight New York City. Despite the late—or early, rather—hour, the streets were still more than alive, maybe even livelier than evening New York. That didn’t surprise Harry one bit.

Before he could take in the scene of the flashing lights and the speedy cars, the neon signs and the busy pedestrians, the stunning, ever-so eventful New York City, he was being pulled by Niall once again. They maneuvered through the street, dodging people and muttering a quick ‘excuse me’ every minute.

“To cure a writer’s block,” Niall shouted over his shoulder and grinned, “You’ll need some inspiration.”

He pulled on Harry’s arm once more and came to a stop in front of a club. Harry couldn’t make out what the neon sign spelled out for Niall had already dragged him in, past security guards who just nodded at them with huffs.

“You think a club is the best place to find inspiration?” Harry sat on a stool beside Niall and leaned on the wooden bar with a heavy breath, tired from all the speed walking. “Normal people go sightseeing to find inspiration, Niall.”

“Now, now,” Niall tut-tutted, “First of all, we’re not normal people; we’re _cool_ people.” He grinned. “Second of all, you can find inspiration anywhere, Harry, shouldn’t you know that by now?”

“I do,” Harry rolled his eyes.

“Also, a change of scenery is nice after spending three whole days in a boring office.” Niall pointed out. He waved the bartender and recited their drinks. He and Harry have been friends long enough to know each other’s alcoholic—and non-alcoholic—drink of choice by heart. It took some time for Niall, though, to remember Harry’s; it was rather complex and fancy, but when they went bar hopping during late November the year they met, Niall finally managed.

Harry’s friendship with Niall was one of the things he was most thankful for in life. He met Niall during his first day working for Matter Magazine, which was only Niall’s third day in the company. They immediately clicked during their encounter in the break room, where Niall had a guitar and was playing a lovely acoustic of Jack Johnson’s Banana Pancakes while Harry made a cup of coffee. He instantly recognized the familiar tune and sang along as he added sugar to his mug. The two were nearly inseparable since then.

Although not exactly full, the club had a good amount of people considering the time of hour. Apart from Niall and Harry, there was a group of three men in suits speaking in hushed voices occupying a booth, a couple at the other end of the bar having a somewhat intimate conversation, and a group of teenagers at the far end corner of the room, all smiles and drunken giggles. A steady beat played through worn out speakers, the dance floor completely empty but filled with flashing lights. The atmosphere was calm and light, everything Harry could ask for at that moment. He was content and happy, enjoying his drink with Niall at the godly hour of three in the morning.

Everything was in order until, in the most abrupt manner, the club doors opened sharply and dozens of camera flashes went off. There were bright lights everywhere accompanied by high-pitched screams and demanding shouts. Harry squinted his eyes from where he directly sat across the doors and watched as a figure was brought inside the club with the assistance of three bulky men. The entourage shoved the person into the club and instantly shut the doors behind them with grunts.

And there stood the ever so famous Louis Tomlinson.

Harry knew who Louis was. Aside from the fact that it was pretty much his job to know who he was, Harry recognized him simply because Louis was everywhere. Being one of the biggest Hollywood stars out there puts your face on pretty much every billboard possible. Even if Harry didn’t work for the media, he would still know who Louis Tomlinson was, thanks to the endless promo he was getting. He was starring in movie after movie, modeling for Burberry and Louis Vuitton, and had a segment devoted to him on Entertainment Tonight every day without a fail. He was all the tabloids ever talked about—who’s Louis Tomlinson dating? Where’s Louis Tomlinson having dinner tonight? Who did Louis Tomlinson party with? Not a day has passed since Louis’ debut film where Harry hasn’t heard the name Louis Tomlinson.

“Hey, it’s Louis.” Oh, and Niall personally knew him. No big deal. Before Niall began his graphic design career at Matter Magazine, he started out as an interviewer. He spent an entire day with Louis once, when the magazine wanted to dedicate their June issue to him in celebration for his debut film’s five-year anniversary.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed out. “It is.”

“Do you want to go say hi?” Niall offered, but it seemed like Louis was thinking the same thing.

Before Harry could give an answer, Louis Tomlinson was already making his way towards the duo with a tiny smile, leaving his entourage by the door. He was dressed in all black; tight, tight dark skinny jeans and a black shirt that fitted him perfectly, showing off the dip of his waist. Something about his appearance was magnetic and alluring, and it wasn’t just because he was famous. The entire room fell into a hushed silence as he walked through, but no one screamed and ran to him asking for a photo. He was captivating enough to just stare at and watch.

“Niall, my man.” He called out as he approached them, high-fiving him once in arm’s reach. “How have you been?”

“It’s all good, yeah.” Niall grinned. He turned to Harry and swung an arm around his broad shoulders. “Louis, this is Harry. He writes for Matter. Harry, Louis.”

Harry gave his own friendly smile and nodded. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m a big fan.”

“Yeah?” Louis’ mouth twitched to something bigger. “That’s great.”

“So,” Niall casually tipped his beer bottle towards the actor, “what are you doing here at bloody three in the morning?”

Louis shrugged. “Need publicity for the new movie that’s premiering next month. The tabloids are going to freak when they see me out and about at this time.”

For someone who actually contributed to tabloids, Harry couldn’t help but praise Louis’ publicity stunt. It was definitely going to work, especially since Louis hasn’t been seen publicly for two whole days. “We better update Matter’s Twitter with the latest news, then.” Niall and Louis both chuckled, and Harry gave a content smile. A-list celebrity Louis Tomlinson just laughed at his joke. He was definitely going to take pride in that.

“Actually,” the star cleared his throat with a bit of hesitance, “I had the choice whether to go to a club or to walk around with my co-star, but I was in the mood for a drink and not fake relationships.”

Harry couldn’t help but notice the bitterness in Louis’ voice, but he of course didn’t bring it up. Niall appeared to have noticed it as well and shifted in his position. He handed Louis his half empty beer bottle with a grin. “Well, Louis, you have an almost empty club with zero paparazzi and Harry and I. You’re in for a good night.”

And he definitely was.

Harry has read a good amount of articles about Louis that gave light to his personality. He of course knew that it wasn’t a hundred percent accurate, but it still surprised him to see how laidback Louis could be. The media always showed the party going kind of Louis, the Louis that went home smashed drunk or the Louis who liked to dance on tabletops. The Louis who he was drinking with, however, was easygoing and relaxed, perfectly complimenting the after midnight atmosphere.

Their conversations revolved around Louis’ new movie and Niall’s hatred towards Comic Sans and Harry’s new Saint Laurent shoes. It was light conversation with a bit of drunken giggles and louder-than-it-should-be laughs and tons of genuine smiles. No one in the club seemed to mind them, not one camera flash went off throughout Louis’ presence, and that made him even more comfortable, more candid. It was good.

“So,” Louis cleared his throat and adjusted in his seat. He lightly traced the rim of his bottle with a skinny finger. “What are you boys doing here at such a late hour?”

Niall was a slurring mess so Harry took charge. “Niall thought it’d be fun to take me out of the office for a change of scenery; needed a bit of inspiration, I guess.”

Louis nodded and lingered his eyes on Harry. His lips formed a tiny smile. “Am I a good enough inspiration, Harry Styles?”

Harry paused. He felt his entire body go numb and his face heat up. Louis knew his name? His whole name? As if reading his mind, Louis chuckled lightly. “You’re quite the writer. Some of my friends go crying to me in the middle of the night because some man by the name of Harry Styles wrote a nasty post about them.”

“Oh,” Harry dipped his head sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s all good.” Louis grinned. “It’s your job, anyway.”

There was a steady silence between them for a moment; Niall’s incoherent muttering the only noise in the table. As Louis continued to intently watch him, Harry felt a hint of self-consciousness at the bottom of his stomach. Louis Tomlinson, who modeled for several high fashion brands and starred as supposedly attractive male leads in numerous films, was staring at him, Harry Styles, who eats burgers too often and would rather be behind the camera than in front. Harry was practically fidgeting under Louis’ gaze.

“Are magazine articles the only stuff you write?” Louis was genuinely curious; his eyes had interest written all over them as he leaned forward. “Or do you write, like, stories and stuff?”

“Well,” Harry shifted in his seat a bit. “I guess the articles that I write, they’re kind of like stories, too. Different kind of stories, but stories, still.”

Louis merely nodded. “Oh.”

“But,” Harry’s voice came out louder than he intended and he covered it up with a light cough, “I like to write stories, yes. They’re just a bit harder to do, really. They’re a lot longer and kind of more complex than simple magazine articles; for me, at least.”

“So Niall was helping you get a bit of inspiration for an article, I suppose?” Louis’ tone was light and conversational, and Harry couldn’t help but hang on to every word that escaped his lips.

“Yeah,” He exhaled. “I’ve been having writer’s block for a week now.”

Louis tilted his head to the side in thought. He pursed his lips before proceeding, “What usually makes you want to write?”

“People,” Harry shrugged. “I’ve been writing for ages and I always say, the best kind of inspiration is from people. Finding that muse is key to success. Write when you’re falling apart, or falling in love.”

“So, I assume you’ve found yourself a muse, then?” Louis smiled teasingly with his eyes twinkling.

Harry chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “No, no. Not yet.”

There were so many things to adore at that point: the bartender’s girlfriend seemed to have dropped by for a quick visit; the group of teenagers were playing a drunken game of Head’s Up; the couple at the other end of the bar were practically cuddling on one stool as they took photos together. There were so many lovely events taking place, including Niall’s demonstration of how to properly twerk, but Harry seemed to have his eyes locked on Louis.

It wasn’t because he was famous—sure, Louis was a great actor, no doubt, but Harry wasn’t exactly the biggest fan of the action movies Louis starred in. It wasn’t because he was attractive, either—although yes, Louis was unbelievably gorgeous, but it wasn’t entirely because of that, no.

It was because of how genuinely happy Louis appeared in one second, and then miserable the next.

For the entire three hours he spent with Louis, drinking and laughing, he tried to see what was going on in Louis’ head. Of course, it wasn’t the easiest thing, considering that he’s only known the guy for three hours, but he still tried. Harry was rather good with reading people, which graciously helped him with his writing career, but Louis was an exception. He was terribly difficult to decipher.

There were moments where Louis looked like he was about to cry, and after a blink, his eyes were twinkling like Christmas lights filled with delight and hope. His quick changes in body language and facial expressions shifted so rapidly, it appeared that Niall didn’t take notice. Or maybe it was the four bottles of beer.

They eventually called it a night right before sunrise; Louis’ entourage had reminded him of his interview that he was shooting the next day, meaning the last thing Louis needed was a hangover. He wasn’t exactly drunk, just a tad bit woozy, but Louis Tomlinson was a man of publicity stunts. He left the club with exaggerated body swaying and squinted eyes, making sure that the paparazzi got what they wanted. If Harry hadn’t been with Louis the entire time, he would have believed he was drunk in a heartbeat. Maybe that’s why Louis’s gotten so many awards.

Harry ended up in his apartment just after dawn, the orange sky signaling the beginning of a new day. Harry’s had a few drinks in him and staggered around his flat, bumping a few chairs and tripping out of his shoes. He wasn’t too drunk, not enough to vomit anywhere, but he was definitely more than lightheaded. He was on the verge of getting there, of getting to that unclear point where your vision gets blurry and your body feels numb and you know what you’re doing but at the same time not. He was almost there. Almost there, yes, but he was sober enough to know where his laptop was. Sober enough to open Microsoft Word.

Intoxicated enough, however, to think of Louis Tomlinson.

Intoxicated enough to reflect on him. Intoxicated enough to write a word or two about the actor.

Intoxicated enough to write a thousand words describing his night spent with the famous man.

Intoxicated enough to question why Louis had acted the way he did in the club—how melancholic he appeared for one second and how everything seemed to be okay the next.

Harry was intoxicated enough to pass out on his laptop, his head accidentally hitting a particular button on the keyboard.


End file.
